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tu«««iM >mniiii[>1lntMwniiMHfflWli 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

Chap.„_.... Copyright No. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



The Gotham of Yasmar 

a Satire 

^ 



By n;^j. clodfelter 



Prescription 

To be taken as a drastic, but always 
in broken doses. For free distribu- 
tion, on the payment of Ji.oo each. 
Attest : 

Compounding Chemist. 

We promise each who's forced to take his dose, 
'Tis but the pure fermented bellicose. 




The Peter Paul Book Company 
Buffalo, New York 

MDCCCXCVII 




,,VOCOPiEji 






4828 

Copyright, 1897 

by 
N. J. Clodfelter 



Printed and bound by The 
Peter Paul Book Company, 
in Buffalo, New York. 



TO 
THE MEMORY OF THE 



OF THE GOTHAM OF YASMAR, THIS 

SATIRE IS VERY FEELINGLY 

INSCRIBED in' THE 

AUTHOR. 



The Gotham of Yasmar: 
a Satire 



Prelude 

Nemo me impune lacessit. 



A \ /"E'LL touch up our country — a little, not much; 
The statesman, too, in it, we'll give him the knife, 
Who has fooled it so long that it walks with a crutch, 
And unless he does better 'twill fight for its life. 

We'll touch up the foibles of those who'd be great 
In the shades of Parnassus, though only intruders. 

And snatch off the plumes that the mystics of fate 
Fastened on — send them back to the home of secluders. 

In fact, we will do as we please — not beseech, — 
And stand by the old Constitution they gave us. 

That has vouchsafed to all the freedom of speech. 
Believing in God and it ready to save us. 

II 

The robber who robs us of honor and right 

And the dearest of hope that we cherished on earth 

Is the hero this cynical town with delight 

Applauds as he joins with his trumpets of mirth. 



2 Prehide 

And the robber that robs — if he robs well, I say — 
Is the star of the town, and the light of the church 

If he groan in his pew and he moan on his way 
Like an owl to himself as he hoots from his perch. 

He's the robber whose brow is all knit with a frown, 
So religious he sees but the ghosts of all others 

As he walks down the streets of the "classic" old town. 
Like an ass burdened down from the cares of his 
brothers. 

Where sacrilege sits on its gold-studded throne, 

And moistened eyes glisten with devil-pumped tears, 

As they flow down the cheek to the sigh-tapered groan, 
O'er the face that is not, but the one that appears; 

For there is the shrine where he goes to unload, 
In his penitent way, and if God ever hears, 

He will set all his devils upon his black road. 
And hell will resound with his blistering jeers. 

Ill 

Farewell to the social old town that can boast 
Of a college that swings in the century's rockers, 

And alumni of old to offer the toast 

To students just clad in their first knickerbockers. 



Prelude ; 

All fresh from their mothers, the younglings do swarm 
Through the classic old halls that sounded of yore 

With voices of learning that gave them a charm 
Of modern, and ancient, and scholarly lore; 



But cries of the weanlings have many a charm, 

Supplanting those voices with childish-mock moan 

So bleat, little "Tootsies," you do little harm, 
Your cradles are empty, and mammas alone. 



And when we look up to the great big trustees, 
That manage this college of good little boys, 

Their majesties rise up as high as the trees. 

That compass it round to their souls' sweetest joys. 



The chairs that are filled well, with avoirdupois, 

Nothing more, nothing much, as we gaze on the mass, 

We call what we see of it, teaching the boys. 
Professors of letters, and then let it pass; 



To president, trustees, and friends that are glowing 
With modest ambition (don't stare at us, now), 

Your students are sma', in stature they're growing. 
Nothing more, for the pilot's Emeritus now. 



4 Prelude 

Her grandest old soldier, so long at the helm 

Of the ship of her state, through her perilous sea. 

Has guided her on through her storm-beaten realm 
To her surf-bordered harbor of bright destiny. 

Let us sing in our song, that her greatest of glory 
Will be cradled of past, not of future; the roll 

Of alumni of old will alone tell the story 

Of her thirty years' pilot on memory's scroll. 

IV 

'Tis Thanksgiving Day. If you please, we'll return 'em, 
Through muses of venom, they soothe us now most ; 

And the fair pretty ones, we could ne'er before spurn 'em, 
So here's at you all now, from stranger to host. 

If our song wrongeth one, let him say so, we pray on ; 

If it striketh him fair, 'tis himself he then wrongs; 
And we're one yet whose whip is of steel, and can lay on 

Till lash giveth character to whom it belongs. 

To hypocrites, charlatans, and their combinings. 
We fain the black spirit unmask on them now, 

And write their true measures in blackest of linings, 
To ulcer and feed on their memories' brow. 



Prelude 5 

Let the prowling hyena, that poses with men, 
Sneak under the hypocrite's cloak unaware; 

To renounce what we say, let him crawl from his den. 
Kill his man 'neath applause and return to his prayer ; 

Kill his man when the character's killed, as before, 
'Tisn't much for the villian to do to be great ; 

While Gotham applauds, and honors him more. 
By giving him voices in councils of state. 



V 

The village named city, that roosts where it's sitting. 
Like a rooster that never knew daylight was here. 

And can roost on fore'er as the world round it's flitting, 
'Neath the torch of progression, and not be aware. 

Roost on, little village, in ways of old fashion ! 

(You maybe can yet learn a way to grow tougher) 
And never awaken to join the procession 

That's passing along, but grow rougher and rougher. 

Retain the self-style of your name yet, " The Athens " ; 

Let cocoanut brains, soaked, rule the town well ; 
Call all of the pinheads and all of the Nathans, 

Then rendezvous imps from the corners of hell ; 



6 Prelude 

All join in one council and tell the same story, 
ConsjMre and connive in the innocent way, 

And blackmail and lie for money and glory. 
While the heel of dishonor keejjs honor at bay 



L — W — and M — T — give tone to the mixture, 

Infesting the town full fifty years past. 
Their fames are now all that will make it a fixture, 

On a map full as large as a chigger would cast. 

Lie dormant and die of acquired constipation, » 
To purge thy foul self thou findest no place; 

So oscillate on in your own degradation, 

Disinfectants won't blot out your slime and disgrace. 



Ye lawyers and gamblers, and all other asses 

(That we mean in our song), swarm on into hell, 

With the other black ghouls that get out of their places, 
To steal from the living — and dead just as well I 

Seek victims and follow them uj) unrelenting, 
For legal blackmailers unpunished may smile, 

When they bray to a court that is always repenting. 
If he chance to do justice e'en once in a while I 



Prelude 

Life, pr()i)erty, honor, all in a court's keeping; 

A trust that's more sacred men cannot bestow 
Upon man than this one ; it causes more weeping 

Than wars, insurrections, or foe does to foe. 



The Gotham of Yasmar : 
a Satire 



Parti 

'T'^^O bear our suff 'ring is to conquer fate, 

But as we bear we must retaliate 
A little, as we go along, as well 
As those who kill and send their foes to hell; 
So, if we swim in slime and other stuff,* 
'Tis but our way to give our foes enough. 

The good, the best, the honest, and the true, 
Ingratitude shall not be ours for you ; 
The silken cords of love, respect, and grace. 
Shall bind us to you through life's bitter race, 
Though forced to battle with a venal foe, 
And use the weapons that we might forego 
In civil warfare, yet we plead not rash. 
When plying those that give back lash for lash. 
So you, our honest friends, just, good, and true. 
Our light artillery's not trained on you! 



lo The Gotham of Yasniar 

The selfish man, for his own selfish gains, 

From selfishness alone he forges chains 

To bind a friendship that he can abuse, 

And a confiding friend he can misuse, 

And yet look square into his trustful face 

And plead the innocent through friendship's grace. 

It matters not if 'tis for place or wealth, 

T\iO^^ friendships multiply through the same stealth 

Of selfishness, as fate decrees to man 

Distinguished honors; then the kneeling clan, 

Like worshippers of gods in olden days. 

Drop at his feet and sing his loudest praise. 

True friendship — ah! what is it? 'tis as rare 

As visitations from the heav'nly dove 
And when it comes to us the same sweet care 

Should e'er attend it, as the ones we love. 
How many friends have you, my reader — you? 
Methinks I hear you say, "Ah! many, true, 
Who'd share with me in every trial and care. 
And answer with their last my ev'ry prayer." 



Deceptive reader ! if you could construe 
And analyze the hearts you think beat true, 
Though numbered by the thousand — even more. 
And you should find among them half a score 



The Gotham of Yasmar . 1 1 

Whose hearts were true, your wealth would be so great, 

If Croesus were alive with his estate, 

You could with yours have him of his bereft, 

And yet of yours there would be plenty left. 

So now, my reader, as through life you run, 

You're rich indeed if you can count true — 07te. 

We have recorded the fair Pythian story. 

Life bowed to friendship, as it frowned on glory; 

And through the myriads of the cycles run, 

From selfishness we have this single one, 

And it in story. Now, if we select 

One true friend from the throng, what more expect? 

We've bided well our time and waited long, 
And patience has been tested to the quick; 

We're ready now to pay back ev'ry wrong. 
And set on fire each devil that we kick. 

Our sword is satire, and we dare to greet 

All worthy foes that doubt its tempered steel, 

And on the field conspiring dastards meet, 
That never felt, but may learn yet to feel. 

Here's to our foes, half candor, and half grief; 
At them, our muse, full-fledged, for sweet relief; 



12 llic GotJiani of Yasmar 

Sparc not llie ones that cast the darkest woes, 
Which should have been our friends instead of foes! 



Scoff, censure, i)raise, ignore, 'tis all the same; 

We care not what you do, we'll have our say, 

Feel better, too, to stop while on our way. 
And dine upon the paltry little game 

That trespasses upon our right of way, 
To satisfy our ''bilious appetite." 
So, clear the track, for we shall write our right 
With bullets, lead, or paper, in the fight; 
We care not which from us you may invite, 
We are prepared to give and take, and give. 
More than we take. 

Gods! 'tis sweet to live 
And pay back what we owe to erring man; 
E'en if we pay on the installment plan, 
And speeding years of int'rest have been many, 
We'll yet compound, and pay back ev'ry penny. 
The currency we pay in, he will revel. 
Refund in tax we levy on the Devil; 
And, gods ! how we will lay the tariff on ! 

The Devil's claws will hold it ev'ry line, 
When he exacts, he'll wish that he had gone 

About his own affairs instead of mine. 



The iiotJiain of J ^nsma)- 1 3 

In days when poets spring up all around us, 

Like mushrooms in some lonely hotbed crammed, 
And we behold them', they the more confound us. 

And as we read, the more we wish them damned; 
Shades of Longfellow, Bryant, Holland, too, 

And Lowell, Whittier, Poe, and squint-eyed Riley, 
The latter trying hard to rise to view. 

Among the throng by dialect so wily! 
His readers all applaud, when he is through. 
For he's as classic as the pedagogue, 

And beautiful as the red rose in June; 
His verse too smooth, as if inspired by grog, 

The same old verse that never was in tune; 
And when we see him 'mong the throng he poses. 

We think of bedbugs strutting with peacocks. 
And ginseng weeds amid a bank of roses. 

And incense tainted by the smell of frocks 
That had been worn too long, and cast aside. 
And happened to drift in upon the tide. 



His little publishers, with fervent joys, 
Hold him to view as children do their toys, 
Well balanced, yet tiptoed, on either hand. 
They sliout : ** See ! see ! the poet of our land ! 



14 The Gotham of Yasmar 

Then Riley to his own amusement struts, 

On either pahii, and many a caper cuts, 

While all the journals of the country shine 

With bristling praise, at just so much a line, 

Except 77;^y"^//r;?^/of his town; it shouts, 

'' Our foster child ! " The child then frowns and pouts, 

And says: 

" 'Tis me dat maked mysef, I dess. 
An' not de dad dat c'aims me. No, doodness! 
I oodn't be his chile no more, I oodn't. 
If he did teached me some t'ings 'at I touldn't 
Do, w'en I's so 'ittle, 'at's no 'eason 
I s'ould be hisn in an' out'n season. 
I 'on't no more! so dere now, M\^''x Journal ; 
Don't try to be at all times so paternal! " 



The Journal takes its little protege 
And "nightly rides it" on its bended knee. 
And pats it gently for its freaks and wiles — 
It looks up in its parent's face, and smiles. 



The Gotha77i of Yasviar 



15 




Do to peep, 00 ittie pecious, Two s'eet ittie b'ight eyes up, Papa 'tay wight 




S^^^^^S^ 



n here wiz it, Tovy ittie bare 'egs up. Do to seepins, do to seepins, Do to seep, 



id: 



^ mm^^x^ 



^5^—r 



— — I — I — *~ 



my ittie one, Dit de paddies down all warmy, Fo' my dar'ing ittie son. 



SONG. 



In the ''Milk World " language. 

Dototeepins, ittiepecious, 
Toseitittie bighteyesup, 

Papatay wight inherewizit, 
Toveittie bareegsup. 

Dototeepins, dototeepins, 
Dototeep, myittieone, 

Detdepaddies downall warmy, 
Ittie pecious, ittione. 

Dotebugger inenosy, 
Mateebaby tnuffitome, 

Nevermindit, papadetit, 
Coochewoochee ! outetome ! 

Ittieeyeshave donetodezzer, 
Matechillsup papa tweep, 

Sinko osingittieone — 

Bessit ! bessit ! donetoseep. 



This is an elegant example of first 
MILK poetry, and our object in printing the 
original, together with the translation, is to 
show the reader, that, when the Milk-World 
diction enters the Child-World diction, it 
loses much of its poetic beauty. 



Same, translated to the ''Child- 
World''^ language, 

Do to peep, 00 ittie pecious, 
Two s'eet ittie b'ight eyes up, 

Papa 'tay wight in here wiz it, 
Tovy ittie bare 'egs up. 

Do to seepins, do to seepins. 

Do to seep, my ittie one, 
Dit de paddies down all warmy, 

Fo' my dar'ing ittie son. 

Dot a bugger in him's nosy, 
Mate a baby sniffle some, 

Nevy mind it, papa det it, 
Cooche-wooch — and out it tome! 

Ittie eyes have done todezzer. 
Mate de chills fro' papa tweep, 

To sink o' oosing ittie Jimmie! 
Bess him! bess him! done to seep! 

This translation is most cordially in- 
scribed to The Indianapolis Journal; 
and for its especial convenience we have had 
the same set to music by a famous musician. 
We suggest that it would be appropriate for 
the closing of the evening lullaby when 
Jimmy is hot cross. 



1 6 The GotJiam of Yasiiiar 

The type he once used now in its confines 

Will lie as dormant as when in the mines; 

The art the molder used could be no worse, 

Yet never reach the level of his verse ; 

And still the few applaud the "trashy rot," 

As Riley "tiptoes" in a "turkey" trot. 

And swells up like his "rooster" on the fence 

He rhymes so "neatly" with his "chicken hens." 

The last rhyme's his — for God's sake, let it be, 

And do not charge a crime like that to me. 

But, as we push our pen along, we think 
Of all the champions so much above us. 

And smile because they have leaped from earth's brink, 
And, too, because the gods now really love us 

As much as they once lov'd our noble brothers. 

And will give us that love they gave to others, 

In spite of Riley, Miller, or their like; 

So we'll mount Pegasus, and they the "bike." 



But since \\\^ great we've named, 'long with the great 
Whose sweeping spirits from this earth have fled. 

We must proclaim, we can no longer wait, 
To tell the world that Riley, too, is dead ; 

He was his self-destroyer — suicide ; 

His weapon was his " Child World," and it lay 



The Gotham of Yasmar i 

Dead as its victim, closely by his side," 

The silent witness of the fatal day; 
And generations that are yet unborn, 
Will hold it up to ridicule and scorn. 

Now, he who scoffs at us for touching Riley, 
He should be forced to read for just a while a 
Chapter from his " Child World "; then content 
The scoffer would be with his punishment. 
We pray you, spirit Riley, don't be cruel. 

And kill us for this act of criticism, 
But come up, shade or spirit, take your gruel. 

And call it trash instead of witticism. 
'Twill be so childlike, and so sensible. 
And thus to you more comprehensible ! 

O'er all the lands of which we ever wandered, 
Through all the books of which we ever pondered, 
And through all times the muse has e'er enjoyed us. 
Three syllables have more or less employed us — 
Wil-cox, sing?! And yet, we've heard thee singing. 
Songs fair and dear, down through the cycles ringing 
In sweet refrains : ah ! must we too reveal her 
Who sings so sweetly? it is Ella Wheeler — 
Wil-cox. Sing ! ? the sweetest inuse ne'er slumbers 
On through each year, but pours forth fairer numbers. 



1 8 The Gotham of Yasrnar 

The tones she strikes, they will f(jrever linger, 
E'en when old Death has laid on his cold finger; 
Then songs of love swept on a lyre above us, 
Will tremble back to earth and sigh they love us, 
In sweeter tones than those struck while terrestrial. 
Be patient till our queen becomes celestial ! 
Then take your trumpet 'neath the stars, and wonder, 
And telescope, and search on 'till you've found her. 
'Twill not be long till strains will come back gushing 
To tender hearts they really will be crushing. 
Forgive us, now, posterity; we warn you. 
E'en if the singer from above shall scorn you. 

About the time of nineteen ninety-seven, 

When earth's sojourners will look most to heaven 

For poets of the nineteenth century 

(Those who escaped the penitentiary). 

The meek observer takes his telescope, 

And ranges from the north star down the slope 

Of distant vision, and low on the deck, 

He sees our Mis'r Riley, jus' a spec'. 

With the mos* pow'rful lens,* he does observe 

Joaquin Miller hanging to the tail 
Of a wild comet, and he sees him swerve, 

And kite along through space upon its trail. 



* Distance not far, either. 



TJie Gotham of Yasnim- 19 

And as he gazes thus, his trumj) he takes, 

And closely presses it against his ear 
And listens, till all heaven wide awakes 

In melodies, sweet as if they were near; 
And when he's filled to brim admiring those, 
He'll change his vision o'er to Apollo's 
World, and there he'll see, if his lens is strong, 
Wilcox, and Krout, and others of their throng 
Scatt'ring wide such hymns and tender strains 
They bring great clouds that pour down heavy rains 
Upon the stargazer, when he is most 

Inspired. This to him is so bad an omen 
That he begins to think it was a ghost 

In old Apollo's world instead of woman. 
He stops awhile to pull his hair, and sees 

Great Jupiter break through a rift of clouds, 
And, as to show their teeth, the Pleiades 

Smile through another rift, as white as shrouds. 
He turns his telescope upon them, and 
Peeps through. -^ 

He falls full length upon the sand; 
He sees the greatest poets holding mass 
Observing him, as if he were an ass. 
For looking down so low at little specks. 
And wond'ring why such fools should strain their necks 
To see such atoms, and so far below 
The throne where only the great poets go. 



20 The Gotham of Yasmar 

And the stargazer howled, and kicked, and swore, 
And broke his telescope. He'll gaze no more; 
But others will, who know astronomy, 

And they will watch him who knocks out a star, 
Keep tab on him, and note all harmony 

And discord of each harp e'en up as far 
As Jupiter himself. This may exclude 
Doc Matthews,* yet we hope he may intrude, 
(Excuse us. Doc) — we mean he may invade, 
Or stand a chance there to alone parade, 
A portion of the moon, should he bestride 
An asteroid, and not Pegasus ride. 
Another, too, one Lawrance,f who is fair, 
Should he persist to ride his winged horse there, 
May be cast off in space, and whirl around. 
Until he comes again back to the ground. 
So, Mr. Lawrance, let your horse astray. 
And grab a comet's tail, and sail away. 
'Twill be much safer than depend on him; 
He's spavined, ringboned — yes, in ev'ry limb, — 
For, don't you see? he limps in this slow pace; 
What would he do to run a star a race ? 
Why, when it passed him as he'd onward sneak, 
He'd look around and only smell the streak. 



* " Tempe Vale, and Other Poems," by this author, do him honor, and 
we are quite sure he has earned the position we have given him. 

fin "Ellina" and "The Story of Judith," Mr. Lawrance has well 
earned his position. 



The GotJiani of Yasinar 2 1 

A great big ambling wabbler — Opie Read, 

We think they call him down in Tennessee — 
Who wrote ''The Prophet's Wives " and "Old Hayseed," 
And God alone knows what else, thinking he 
Can ride down through the twentieth century; 
O Opie, Opie ! you are such a fool, 
You should go drown yourself in the same pool 
The wives drowned in, or be rode on a rail. 
For you'll be tied to some wild comet's tail, 
And cast adrift, soon as the fates do place 
You with the dead, and whipped around through space! 
You've killed so many people, and so rash. 
By drowning them, and smoth'ring them with trash, 
When you are fastened on a comet's back, 
You'll get well paid by many a scathing whack 
As you collide with others of your sphere, 
Not up much higher than the atmosphere. 
So go to penance; make amends before 
It is too late ; but, Opie, write no more! 



We'll whet our scythe for Hay that's gone to seed. 
And lay it low with thistle rank, and reed 
Will fall to its keen edge, and any rake. 
Will mix the harvest that we chose to take. 
Though standing long unharvested, 'twill be 
Cheap fodder for old England's majesty; 



2 2 The Gotham of Yasmar 

But hence it goes, and if they on it browse — 
Well, they'd really better feed it to their cows, 
Baled or unbaled, with U. S. stamp on there. 
Look well to same should they upon it fare ; 
It laid too long upon the stubble field, 
To any more a succulency yield. 
Remember what we say: there should have grown 
A second crop of Hay where this was sown, 
For foreign market; Britain, here's to you, 
This crop that's over ripe — me-ew, me-ew. 

To you, ye lettered minions, who'd presume 

To flash a genius on beyond the tomb. 

Stop, think, and heed the dangling of the throng 

That go to glory on bedraggled song. 

Should there be any whom we fail to please. 

By an omission, count them, then, with these, 

Except John Hay ; now, he should count some more, 

Than a mere flash light that had gone before, 

Since he has gone in tinsel to the port 

Of classic England, and St. James's Court. 

This gives him vent; he may now reach the moon, 

And take possession, and still sing and croon; 

But this will be contested every inch 

By lunatics up there who never flinch. 

They're poets to; and so, if we guess right, 

When Hay arrives to take his claim, he'll fight, 



The Gotham of Yasniar 23 

Or be hurled off to then become a comet, 
And sail so swift he'll be so sick he'll v-mit, 
And cosmic dust will fly around so thick 
Astronomers will know that Hay is sick. 
God speed you, John, for we have ranked you high; 
Whet up your sword, lay down your pen — and die. 
But wait until you have recrossed the waters, 
And left the songs to lull old England's daughters 
As you have ours; and do not grow demure, 
E'en should you be in London quite obscure. 
Don't pull your hair if Shakespeare's star still shines; 
Don't grow morose if England scorns your lines; 
'Twill be far better to berate her wines. 
Should Tennyson be quoted in your hearing, 
Don't frown, maintain the dignity of bearing. 
Remember that the sun of Byron rose, 
And will expand fore'er, o'er his repose. 
Remember Milton, Pope, and Wordsworth, too. 
And Browning, Scott, and Campbell, 'mongthefew; 
Forget them not as shining suns, our Hay; 
But should you mid their brilliance lose your way. 
Conceive yourself the magnitude you are 
In such a constellation — just a star 
Astronomers can scarcely ever disk. 
So if you're lost, blame self — you took the risk ! 
Once Lowell, and a Bayard, and a Taylor 
Shone in the galaxy of England's gay 



24 The GotJiam of Yasina?' 

Like suns of Jupiter; and lights yet frailer 
Will dwindle into darkness, Mr. Hay. 
So, should you be compelled to grope your way 
Amid the stars that shine for other eyes, 
Take lessons from the silence of the skies, 
E'en though colossal visions round you creep, 
And learn one sun can put all stars to sleep ! 

Oh yes! oh yes! our muse, our pretty muse, 

You were so kind to come from your recluse. 

And pose for us in nature's scant attire. 

And touch the trembling strings of our fond Lyre I 

We feel thy magic presence, fairy maid. 

And heav'nly doves fly round from ev'ry glade. 

And flow'rs from Cashmere, fresh from beds of dew. 

Rise up on either hand to meet our view. 

O vale of Paradise ! the home of queens, 

The fountain of our legends and our dreams ! 

You bless us now, as we have ne'er been blessed — 

One world, one beauty, and by both caressed. 

Lulled on into an everlasting sleep. 

Where love's sweet vigils o'er us e'er do keep ! 

O pretty muse! we thank 

What, little rowdy ! 
Have you brought in our presence oorn Jack Gowdy? 
You treach'rous maid, we'll lead you off askance. 
And send our oom Jack on to dear old France: — 



The GotJiam of Yasniar 25 

And what a trick you served us through McKinley, 

You little wretch ! Did you but know that men lay 

Down their lives just to avenge their wrongs, 

When little muses dance off with their songs 

As you have done with ours, when you brought Gowdy 

Into our presence ! — 

Since the sky is cloudy, 
We'll let you go and have your stubborn way; 
And if he will, you may lead Jack astray. 
Yet, hoping he'll grow virtuous and stately, 
W^e'U let him go, but know we'll miss him greatly. 
(^But if old France can hold her own with fack, 
God knows she's safe — we' II never take it back.') 



Our flash light shows another, Lee O. Harris, 
The " Bobwhite Poet," standing out to dare us. 
With guards drawn up as pugilists would draw 'em ; 
We'll let him strike, then dodge in, and we'll claw 
The same as others who may need a dressing, 
A satirizing, or a sacred blessing. 
For really bobwhites will tell their own story; 
Since he sang them, they'll whistle him to glory; 
And when he steps from this earth to his planet, 
And has been on it long enough to man it. 
He'll come back close enough to see earth bristling. 
And set the quails he stirs up all to whistling. 



26 The Gotham of Yasniar 

Now, Mrs. Donnelly, down in old Texas, 
We have no doubt but your friends will expect us 
To take you with us the next hundred years! 
Hard task ! hard task ! because we have great fears 
As to our harp — it's getting out of tune, — 

And our winged horse fell down and broke a wing. 
And when we try to sing we only croon. 

And when we croon the owls begin to sing, 
And this will strike good singers with such plight, 
To take them with us — well, 'twould not be right 
When we have such grave doubts about our trip; 
But if you'd take the journey, pack your grip. 
And tune your harp, and mount the spavined jade, 
As we go by to join the cavalcade. 
The chords you strike we think will linger o'er 
The funeral pyre of many gone before. 
Who would be greater harpists than you are. 
But ne'er can reach you when you mount your star. 



Our thoughts revert, and go to poor Mark Twain, 

Who made us laugh in boyhood ; the refrain 

Comes back in tears, and sets our heart to throbbing, 

And turns our laughter into anguished sobbing. 

Heart cries: Poor Clem! poor Sam! poor Twain I 

poor Mark ! 
Where genius lighted up your way, 'tis dark, . 



The Gothani of Yasniai'' 27 

And in a strange land far away you grope 

Your lonely course, for genius had her scope ; 

How oft our risibles were overwrought 

By some expression or some grotesque thought, 

That flowed from off your pen, O friend of youth ! 

Maturer age, hast time wrote down its truth 

Of ravages, and left you scarce a ray 

To watch your brilliant genius fade away? 

But look ye, friend, up in the heavens so far. 

And see thy genius fixed, by some fixed star 

That's fading 'neath its. glow and radiant light. 

And learn, dear friend, for thee there is 110 night f 

There is a chanter who in song's a stripling; 

We'll scratch our head to bring his name to mind, 
'Tis — 'tis — 'tis — ah ! — 'tis — 'tis one Rud\ard Kipling, 

A little poet of the croaking kind. 
He seems to be of song more like a joker 

When with sweet singers tries he to commune, 
Or like a bullfrog that's the loudest croaker 

In all the marshland — always out of tune. 
Whene'er we hear his song, we feel surrounded 

By one great barren waste of swampy land 
Where frogs and owls in numbers are unbounded 

And jack-o'-lanterns rise on either hand, 
The weird and dismal hoot of the night king. 

And the deep throats of the most sturdy frogs, 



2S The Gotham of Yasniar 

And wafting breeze of blood-bats on the wing 

Fanned from the hissing vipers on the logs. 
There combat rages ! as these vile bloodsuckers 

Draw from the writhing reptiles their lifeblood, 
And an old tree toad looks on as he puckers 

His warty mouth, to drink it, if he could. 
His lyre again twangs ; and the screaming near us ! 

A jackal and a lynx in fierce combat, 
And knotted vipers, writhing, they so scare us 

That our stiff hair stands up and lifts our hat ; 
And we awaken from our nervous sleeping 
Believing that we felt the vipers creeping, 
And turn ourselves in bed all trembling, thinking — 
Yes, knowing, swearing — that we'd not been drinking, 
But only reading Kipling, Just to rank him. 
Now, should we ever condescend to thank him. 
When he caused us to wrestle with a nightmare 
Until our black hair had all turned to white hair? 
No, no, we answer; never will we thank him. 
But clap our hands as slimy creatures yank him. 
And let him go and find his way \>y fox-fire, 
And seek his level, which, in fact, is no higher. 

And there is Pfrimmer, whom we'd like to spare, 
If he would write the English with more care. 
Or write it as it pours out from his heart. 
In the pure tongue and not in acquired art. 



The GotJiam of Yasmm'- 29 

For, when we pick his '' Driftwood " up, we see 
And find so much sweet sentiment expressed, 

In what he terms the dialect — maybe! 
But, if it is, God spare us from the rest 
Of dialectors, for his is the best. 

Yet it's so badly crippled with dropped letters, 

And has caused so much death among typesetters, 

That we're almost afraid to read it through. 

For it, no doubt, could kill a reader, too. 

Now, Mr. Pfrimmer, dialect's contagious. 

And to true scholarship it is outrageous; 

So clear your system of it while there's time 

And run pure diction through in perfect rhyme. 

As you can do, and just let Riley revel 

Alone in dialect, as it's his level. 

For if you'd write true English you'd acquire 

A. star so high, when you stepped from this sphere, 
The specks of dialectors would appear 

No more than the mere twinkle of fox-fire. 

Just like Kipling in among the '' should-be's," 
With the dialectors and the '' would-be's "! 

Nat Goodwin ! if it had not been for you. 

We should have written this whole satire through. 

And let the stagestruck feeble-minded go, 

Without allusion; but you fooled us so 

The last time you came back ''to do our town "— 

Why, Nat, you acted more like some old clown. 



30 The Gotham of Yasmar 

Discharged from a half-rated show, and taken 

Into some fourth-rater, forlorn, forsaken. 

Ah, dejected Nat ! if you could really pass, 

And had the power to view " as in a looking-glass" 

Yourself, as you here tried to act, your pride 

Would be so cut you'd surely suicide — 

That is, if you are not now too much forlorn 

To have the pride we speak of from you shorn. 

You could not help it, Nat, you'd be so 'shamed 

You'd botch the suicide that we have claimed 

For you, and cripple up yourself so much 

That stage stride would go ambling on a crutch. 

E'en then, we've no doubt, 'twould be better done. 

But better still if two instead of one. 

So do adopt the crutches; it behooves you 

To try the artificial that improves you ; 

For nature has so long been schooling you. 

And vanity alone been fooling you. 

Till really you believe you can act — mind. 

You can, Nat, some; but such a measly kind 

Forces us to say, *' Alas ! poor Yorick ! " 

And sigh for a large dose of paregoric ! 

Now, there is Russell ! when he made his sally 

At the people, in his " Peaceful Valley," 

We feel like saying, *' If he had died first. 

Been laid to rest within it, then the worst. 

Of acting would have ne'er to us been known 

(Except through Goodwin and the chaff he's sown).' 



TJie Gotham of Yasmar 31 

Yet some good's there, for little friv'lous things 
Will set the people wild, and touch the springs 
That let their foibles loose; and cry and laughter 
Will ring like bedlam from the floor to rafter, 
E'en when some old dry chestnuts have been cracked 
A thousand times, and hulls have all been hacked 
Into a dust, while sitting in our places — 
The hnpudents! they blow it in our faces. 

Ah, dainty queen of tragedy, come down. 
And on your pretty head receive our crown. 
All garlanded and wreathed in fairy land, 
Brought o'er the waters in a Naiad's hand 
Fresh from the beds of Cashmere far away. 
And mines of Eldorado on the way. 
Decked with the gems that wait no mortal eye 
But give themselves to fairies that pass by, 
To bead the crown for us we would bestow. 
Upon our queen of tragedy — Marlowe. 

And since we rise among the larger actors. 

We wish to cancel other little factors; 

And peeping down the cycles through the vistas, 

The fogs rise up so thickly that the mist is 

Almost impervious to the flash of genius 

That seems to rise on purpose just to screen us. 

But as we muse a panorama rises 

To our view and shows us great surprises; 



32 The Gotham of Yasniar 

Could you behold us now you'd see us frowning, 

For as we write we see our Robert Downing, 

We once admired, e'en if he crippled Damon 

And hobbled Pythias as he frenzied laymen. 

We see him pleading, bowing, trembling, shaking, 

Kneeling, humbling, begging, stififiing, quaking, 

And cornered by old Caesar, for a libel, 

And pleading for sweet mercy on the Bible ; 

We behold both him and Caesar talking. 

And thousands of armed Spartans round them walking 

Each crying ''Vengeance ! " — gods! it does look sickly 

To see them crowding on our friend so thickly, 

And all for vengeance, — but old Caesar's gamer 

Than any other, but he acts some tamer 

(For he's seen Downing act), and says '' You see, sir, 

For years you tried the plays that pass for me, sir. 

Or Antony that praised me, and I swear 

No Roman ever had the nerve to dare. 

What you have done ! 

Spartans ! as he shakes there. 
Take him, fork him, pitch him in the lakes there 
That burn forever ! ' ' 

— And he was our friend, 
But friend no more, destined for such an end. 

Since it is just the hour now for our dinner. 
We'll order from our menu Otis Skinner, 



The Gotham of Yasmar 33 

And take him with a relish — stale old fellow, 

That's wallowed on the stage-field till he's mellow ! 

O Otis, Otis ! we could kindly greet you 

Off the stage, if we should ever meet you; 

But when we see you acting like a monkey 

That's been half trained, or like a spavined donkey 

That ancients rode, w^e never can forgive you, 

Though you act on as long as ever live you. 

When the theater calls us, we are going 

For entertainment; and our stage was growing 

More in favor till you came the last time 

And filled your place just merely as to pass time. 

Your acting was as if you wished to shirk us. 

And we mistook your play for some old circus; 

The ringmaster and clown and donkey, too, 

All rose as natural as they were in view. 

Now, change your style ere 'nother time you work us, 

Or call your show^ by right name — just a circus. 

We'll weave a bouquet for the matchless Sarah 
Bernhardt — matchless 'cause she will not marry — 
And yet Bernhardt, and Bernhardt on forever, 
i\.nd Bernhardt off the stage is the most clever, 
And yet her acting is the most defiant ; 
Who sees her takes a pygmy for a giant. 
She's so impressive one flash from her eyes. 
Can put the stars to sleep throughout the skies. 



34 ^/^^ GotJiam of Yasinar 

Observatories have been closed of late 

For some phenomenon called cosmic state; 

Astronomers keep drifting through it solving — 

Though baffled, for the planets cease revolving — 

And calculations missed are no surprise 

When traced back to the cause — 'tis Sarah's eyes. 

And since with all the stagestruck we must tussle, 
We'll seek a queen and call on Lillian Russell 
To step before our footlights till we crown her. 
While all her would-be rivals scowl and frown, sir. 
She's queen the same in all the roles she poses. 
Her crown shall be of everlasting roses, 
Webbed with exotics and most fairy pinions 
Dewed with rare gems up into countless millions. 
And each gem dropped down from a fairy's finger, 
With blessings, praises, that around her linger; 
And it has often filled us with strange queries, 
When we've picked Lillian from the throng of fairies. 



Upon the verge of disappointment seated, 
As we are now, our Satire not completed, 
And poverty and clouds, and not a ray. 
To brighten up this murky dismal day, 
We'll grow more gloomy and call F. Marion 
Crawford up to task, and take the carrion 



TJie Got ham of Yasinar 3 = 

He feeds us on, and analyze a morsel 
That he would have go over ev'ry doorsill. 
Now, he's industrious, if we're not mistaken, 
If nothing more; but yet our faith is shaken 
Whene'er \ve read him, for he's been too sprightly 
In turning off his pages, and if lightly 
We were to let him go he'd more abuse us 
With such bad stuff we'd ask him to excuse us. 
We trust the people will not ask a question, 
But act, and quickly, upon our suggestion. 
Now, since his works go out to all creations 
In oceans, floods, and rivers, other nations 
Should help us curb him where he's overflowing 
And drowning out what others may be sowing. 
'He should be seized at once and bound and gagged, 
For better game than he has oft been bagged, 
Just think of " Claudius," "Isaacs," "Politician," 
"A Roman Singer," "Leeward," or "Magician," 
Or anything, if Crawford's written it, 
That's void of rhetoric or fiery wit, — 
He's guilty. Ah, the acrobatic vers' tile! — 
He's written badly, but he might write worse still: 
Before he does, 'tis well that he be bridled; 
And if we catch him, no time's to be idled, 
For he writes on while talking, it is said. 
And while he's sleeping, snoring, in his bed, 
And we suggest, ere 'nother flood is offered, 
That we choke off and strangle this man Crawford. 



36 The (jothavi of Yasmar 

Another, too — we b'lieve they call hini Stoddard, 

In letters we would rank him 'bout with Goddard 

In pugilism; and from this we will not waive, 

Though Goddard has the best by just a shave. 

Now, letters, they should always have the preference, 

In similes, or metaphors, or reference; 

And when we call on such a noted writer 

To stand u[) and be measured by a fighter. 

He should feel honored if he is no higher 

Than this same Goddard; — yet, he may acquire 

An altitude e'en even with his double. 

And if he does he'll save himself much trouble; 

He'll then quit writing, and go to his knitting. 

And have the world's kind plaudits for his ([uitting. 

Now, there is Stockton, whom we'd like to mention, 
Yet 'tis a shame to draw the world's attention 
To smaller atoms; yet, we dare not leave him 
Without a notice, lest we might more grieve him. 
Our microscope, though num'rous in diameter, 
Can only show such matter in hexameter; 
And since we cannot stop to focus that, 
We'll hoist him with our shoe and cry out, ^^Scat T^ 

Ephemeral dwarfs that scarce have any length. 
In letters join to th^is promote some strength. 



The GotJiani of Yasniar 37 

Like little toddlers in a school half taught, 

Each crying, '' See, oh, see what I have wrought ! " 

And then a verse, or line, or epitaph, 

Tickles the ear and makes the list'ners laugh 

At the wild ribaldry, and join in praise 

Till doggerel bobs up dressed in classic bays. 

And all who have ambition and not genius, 

Seek membership where once you may have seen us ; 

But now, repentant, we'll no further trouble you. 

Dear little toddlers of the W. A. W. 

We'll walk alone, and our own chance we'll take. 

And row our own boat, but not on the lake 

Up near old Warsaw, where the little few 

Assemble yearly to praise and review 

Their own sad efforts which lie cold in death, 

Where requiems sung are only wasted breath. 

E'en Ridpath there may chant a sacred mass, 

Or Riley woo some forty-year-old lass; 

'Tis all the same — a corpse must so remain : 

What corpse was ever known to live again? 

Ah, such a crowd of would-be's, by the way ! 

The Nine grow jealous and all fly away. 

When Parker reads or Fishback cuts a spludge, 

Apollo harbors in his breast a grudge. 

Calls on old Gorgon and her poison snake 

To drown them all out in old Eagle Lake. 

They shout, applaud, and then all cry Cum-back, 

And Will bows low, picks up with little slack. 



38 The Gotham of Yasmar 

Then purges some, turns up, and fires away 

Till each leaf trembles on its tiny spray, 

And nods unto the cadence of his voice, 

While the old lake swells up as to rejoice, 

And laps its beach till all the Naiads start 

And cry, '^Cum-back, Cum-back," with pulsing heart, 

''Sweet doggerel," clothed in all its mystery. 

To go down cycles through our history ! 

Of this same W. A. W., so renowned. 

The century closes and by it is crowned. 

Here on this brink, ah ! it may meet no more 

Till Gabriel's horn shall sound from shore to shore 

In requiems for those that gathered here. 



On some fair nook let each one drop a tear. 

As he now lives, and consecrate the place 

To fame that crowds the world into a space 

Of ten feet square, and there build near the lake 

A monument just for sweet memory's sake. 

The monument may be all that you'll leave 

To the posterity that for you grieve. 

And we'll suggest these lines carved deep and plain: 

" Here lie the victims of diseased brain," 

Or this: ''In meetings held here out of doors. 

Our motto was * Scratc*h my back, I'll scratch yours' ; 



The Gotham of Yasmar 39 

And when we scratched we were so nearly matched 
The scratcher had no more force than the scratched. 
And thus we died unrecognized : go hence, 
Old world so cruel, for such negligence ! " 

If those of whom we write get mad and flourish 
A weapon in our face, and say they'll nourish 
The earth with us, we shall not then be frightened, 
But try to have the noose we've tied well tightened 
About their own necks; and if they should die on 
Their overflowing anger, we will sigh on. 
And write a dirge that's flavored with much pity; 
But what we write, we'll close it with a ditty. 



Part II 

The plutocrat sends out to us air bubbles — 

The substance offered to heal all our troubles : 

We shout for him, and vote for him, and praise him, 

And fight for him, and strut till we amaze him; 

He laughs at us, but yet sends on more bubbles. 

The curtain drops; behind the scene with doubles, 

He cries, "What fools! " but sends his bubbles on. 

We smile, and praise, and take them till he's gone, 

Behold ourselves a shadow, day by day, 

And wonder why we thus do fade away 

While ''benefactor" swells up so sedate; 

We ponder why the contrast is so great. 

As plenty smiles around us — ah ! abundance, — 

He (speaks oi famine ; cries i) turns round to clutch it, 
And smiles while starving millions see redundance 

Waving round them, yet they dare not touch it. 
The fertile soil of nations never ceasing 
To bring forth plenty, and each year increasing 
In sweet abundance, while the steam and trolley 
Can whisk it thither — make the whole world jolly, — 
And joy can flash from north to south o'er lines, 
And east and west, where'er the sun's ray shines; 
But yet the world's dark where it should be sunny — 
For want of what? Ah! for the want of money. 



The Gotham of Yasj?tar 41 

Yet who, in these enlightened days, around us. 

Believe it right for starving eyes to hound us 

From any place, though far away in distance? 

We reach them, for we've bridled all resistance 

In nature's gulf except the selfish human, 

And this must be till God makes him a new man : 

And ever why 'tis thus, we cannot tell it; 

Philosophy falls down, yet we repel it. 

E'en if we must not know the very reason — 

The selfishness of man's the devil's treason. 

We shift the money base — game of backgammon; — 

Starvation follows, and we call it famine, 

Like far-off India, 'neath the English rod. 

Where millions starve; we call it plague of God, 

While the old Lion growls and looks so vague, 

The world joins in, and, too, pronounce it plague. 

My country, O my country! — d — n it! too; 

And it is dammed until it's overflowed 
With all the drifting trash that jams into 

Its creeping garbage — and more to be towed 
O'er what is here, the animalcula 
And microbes of the lowest order, they 
Come on to be devoured in schools and swarms 
By sea-serpents that take them in their arms 
And fondle them, then pick their sinewy bones, 
Un terrorized by all their saddened groans. 



42 The Gotham of Yasmar 

Those serpents ! how they prosper! how they thrive! 

Though dormant in their nature, they're alive 

To eat the substance of the world that's held 

In trust for them, the trusts that are so swelled 

By the absorbing of all that they touch 

Except the shadow, goes off on a crutch 

A shadow, scarce a shadow when the sun 

E'en to the shade would make the Devil run. 

Trusts are like sponges, that can never fill — 

Absorb forever, then absorb on still ; 

And when they've pumped us out of ev'ry dollar 

We go off to ourselves in '' mellow'' -choler, 

And nurse our wrath, but praise the trusts right on, 

But for their lives just keep the big fight on, 

And kiss the hand that smote us and the rod. 

We won't; we'll take it; lay it on, by G — d ! 

And if that serpent lives, 'tis not our fault ; 

We'll fight it, if we have to live on salt, 

For 'tis not fair to lie so still and grow; 

'Tis only fair for those to reap who sow. 



My country, O my country! and I think it 
The great ship still so long upon its course 

Now has aboard some pilots that would sink it. 
For their own selfish gain, without remorse. 



The Gotham of Yasniai^ 43 

Abundance bound within its golden sheaf, 

Still cry of want goes on, and no relief, 

On either hand; it comes spontaneous, too; 

While plenty teases to the famished's view. 

There is no money only for the few; 

The many must go on and fret and stew 

The tradesman cries, '' More funds! " the artisan, 

He cries, " More," too; and in his wild distress 
The banker shrieks and breaks up as he can, 

And cries "More money ! " as he votes for less. 



Oh, how we're drifting ! and to what a ban ! 

The governors, scarcely men in some great states — 
In one the chief has killed a boy or man — 

They now wield weapons that can seal the fates 
Of any that would dare to do the same 
As they have done; and to their country's shame 
If not their own, — but more we must forbear. 
But groan, and think, and pine, and pull our hair, 
And go off to the mountains in our rages 
To die alone before they read our pages. 
We owe respects to many of our statesmen 

For giving us so plenty of distress: 
The greatest are as good as a third -ratesman 

In statesmanship, and many mark much less. 



44 The Gotham of Yasmar 

Remember, as you read, that hardly ever 
We find the full-fledged statesman who has never 
Disgraced the halls of Congress with his twaddle, 
And plunged a while in crime, to then skedaddle. 
We do not mean that all those are third-raters ; 
They are a size less than such large debaters. 
The third ones are so great they can defy us; 
And if they can't do this, they then will buy us. 
For those we bow, and send our soul above 
And ask it to cart back a tray of love 
Fresh from His grace and loftiest position 
^ That e'er was reached by souls sent on this mission. 



Invocation. 

God, pour thy blessings down on each one's noddle 
That's grown so rich and fat he scarce can waddle; 
And in thy blessings, God, if you should miss us. 
We are content to know where all thy bliss was. 
We know, O God, that thou wilt not miss any 
Who have for self exacted ev'ry penny 
For slipping through a bill of no pretensions, 
E'en if when through it corners all dimensions 
Remember in thy blessings, God, remember 
John Sherman in September and December, 
And through the years to come give all the blessing 



The Gotham of Yasmar 45 

Thou wouldst bestow upon his statesmen brothers, 

And pour them on him and pour on no others 

Through those two months, and let the rest go guessing: 

For if the devil gets them 'twill be better; 

They then can pay him back, for they're his debtor 

To a large sum — but he resumed, and they — 

What did they do ? ah ! what, but to obey ? 

Remember all this till we come again, 

And thou shalt e'er be praised for it. — Amen. 

Note :— We failed to get the blessings. 

The President elect now takes his seat — 

Mark Hanna and McKinley, two in one, — 
While Billy Bryan, who just met defeat, 

Consoles himself because he had not won 
The victory. Himself against such double 

Kept him so busy on the run and jump — 
And dodging fouls, that gave him so much trouble — 

That he could not get round on ev'ry stump — 
And knock the guards down that were up for him; 

Yet he kept him (it) guessing as he run. 
And made a knock-out by a chance so slim 

The whole world wondered when the double won. 

Now, since he (it) has gone to Washington, 
And banks are breaking, and the people mad, 

And the wage-earner cannot get his wage, 

But after voting left to live on rage 



46 The Gotham of Yasmar 

And wind and water, can he (it) be glad 
That he's (it's) in the presidential chair, 
When all the country is in such despair 
And he's (it's) fenced in by a golden wall 

With just such few, and that few to deny 

A silv'ry lining for the poor man's eye — 
And pocketbook? 

But here the critics call, 
And say that politics should not creep in 

Especially in a one-sided way. 
We've done no more, sir, than just to peep in 

Upon the scenes before us ev'ry day; 
And we've seen plenty smiling all around 

And heard the cry of hunger mid it all. 
And, God forbid ! but we have felt the wound 

That hunger makes, and — d — n the dogs that call 
Us up to task for writing as we must 
And tearing masks from faces so unjust. 

Should Mark not be the double of McKinley, 
And his warm friends in Cleveland or in Findlay 
(Oh, why should we be local, when our nation — 
Not only ours, but those of all creation 
Know Mark so well ?) see that we have missed him, 
They will be angry; so we must here list him. 
We'll put a question to you, Mr. Hanna, 
And may it please your grace to answer : 



The Gotham of Yasmar 47 

Can a 
Trust live thriving, fat'ning, if you're in it, 
And at the same time browsing in the Senate? 
As to our thoughts, we hardly think it can, sir; 
But really, Mark, we'd rather have you answer. 
We know you are so heavy, Mr. Hanna, 
That should you not slip up on a banana, 
Which had been reft of all the meat within it, 
You'd put your great foot on its neck and pin it 
So tightly down its face would turn so black, 
That its great tongue would loll, and plead for slack, 
But only plead by strangled twitch alone. 
For any tinsel of sweet mercy shown ; 
While down your heel in tension tighter presses 
As you do cry while o'er its form, '■^Distresses 
Yoiive wrought affiong mankind are past accounting: 
You SHALL NOW DIE ! " — the other foot now mounting 
To its place, on gurgling neck that's pleading 
By gurgles only as its life's receding. 
Now, Mark, this is a picture; and we feel, 
That you would look for some kind of a peel, 
To slip up on just when you'd made the spring, 
And miss your Mark, then nurse it 'neath your wing. 
Now, Sir Mark, if you think we've judged you wrong. 
Just tax to our bedeviled muse's song.- 

The Czar's enthroned in purple and in yellow — 
The hale old Czar well met, a noble fellow, 



48 The Gotha7n of Yasinar 

Who came to Congress from the Maine brain district, 
And brought its brains, enough to know to restrict 
The posing statesmen to the gag rule given 
By " Parliament" — and he is that, sir, even 
More than the gag rule, for he adds to it 
Whate'er he wants — the statesmen, they pursue it. 
He must be greater than Demosthenes, 
Cicero, or Catiline, Orestes, 
Scipio, or Virgil, down to Tottle, 
For he just takes old " Parley " by the throttle, 
And whips him round to any place he pleases, 
Then winks a little while old " Parley " sneezes; 
He has so broadened " Parley " that each speaker 
Becomes seasick before he sails, and meeker 
Than the shorn lamb, as his thoughts do scatter 
So lost in chaos that the subject matter 
Flies off on tangents, leaving him to stutter 
In language that a monkey might well utter. 
There was a time when Greece stood in her glory. 
And " Parley" stood amidst her, white and hoary. 
Supreme, to which they bowed most reverently, 
And looked upon for guidance most contently. 
For centuries old *' Parley " took his stand, 
Unrolled his parchment in his withered hand ; 
The world around read rules he'd written, too, 
And bowed obedience to his laws so true : 
Then eloquence was measured in its sphere 



The Gotham of Yasniar 49 

By its own god, who stood without a peer : — 

Transplanted, served us for a century here, 

Then murdered and borne off without a bier 

By one so great his precepts would not heed — 

He killed him. Who? Why, Thomas Brackett Reed ! 

We have not time to take up each one singly. 

And dress him down ; but there is Mr. Dingley, 

From up in the north corner of old Maine, 

Where soil is famous for producing brain : 

He hovers o'er the nest eggs that were laid 

'Way back in ninety when our Benny preyed 

Upon the country; and the very fate 

Of trusts rests in those eggs to incubate; 

And Dingley now so restless is the setter. 

And moves about so much, we think he'd better 

Get off the nest. E'en if he hatched — the nestlings, 

What would they be, but really little '^jestlings,''^ 

Half-breeds, and Albinos, Prohis, Poppies, 

Pubies, Demies, Goldies, little ^'Floppies,'" 

All to be wheeled out on good silver dollars, 

While all the mess with swelled necks burst their collars. 

Be ready to get on; the cart, it's coming, 

And only three years distant — hear it drumming! 

The gov' nor of our state's a pretty Mount, 
But mighty, if you please, and hard to lead; 



50 The Gotham of Yasniar 

Yet he will go, but only by the fount 

That gives up draughts pure as the dewy bead. 
•Upon the farm he plowed the corn and wheat, 
Turned down the briar with the weed and cheat; 
He's farming still, and with his share he turns 
The walking weeds, the which his conscience spurns 
With the same ardor. When he once gets through 
The farming of our state, we'll find it freed 
From much the worthless that had gone to seed, 
And scattered broadcast, and had rankly grew. 

'Tis now the season : his wild horses meet, 
In legislative session ; each retreat 
Is filled to brim ; and those of pedigree 
Join in the festive swells of jubilee 
For sixty days; and they're so hard to bridle. 
Their little groom has no time to be idle. 
But must go dodging round amid the throng 
And muzzle some, and strangle with the thong 
The wilder ones. E'en the old grizzled st-ds 
Must be well tethered from the younger bloods 
That rant around, or they'll be tramped in mire 
As ruthlessly as if they were the briar. 

Blood tells ! and when we look down on the mass, 
'Tis hard to tell which is the horse or ass; 
The latter has improved so much of late 
The former guards with jealous eye his fate ; — 



The Gotham of Yasinar 5 1 

To show their greatness, horse and ass del)ate. 
Way off in a lone corner, hear a bray — 

Deep, solemn bray,— then, near, a little screech. 
While over by the wall are colts at play 

That grizzled ones would kick if they could reach. 
Soon whinny answers whinny, screech, and bray, 
And bray then answers whinny far away, 
Till whinny, bray, and screech become so bold 
Which whinnied, brayed, or screeched could not be told ; 
The atmosphere grows hot, and the ozone, 
Burns out like fuses on a high-pitched tone; 
i\nd when they've noised till they can' noise no more, 
They champ their bits, paw air, and stamp the floor; 
And all their actions ever indicated 
Were those which proved old Darwin vindicated. 

If of the many gov'nors we're to judge 
By ex's, then we say we have a grudge 
At ex's, and we feel our tax is due 
Before 'tis levied, and we'll pay it, too. 

In New York state we see a Flower set on 
A Hill, which we would in no way bet on 
Growing, for its petals they are olden, 

They're falling to the breeze in ev'ry way, 
And still they have one look, and that is golden. 

Yet no one will take from them a nosegay. 



52 TJie Gotham of ) as mar 

Wc know not wliy, unless it is the Hill 

So hard to climb, and Flower so little worth 
That 'tis agreed that it remain there still 

To fall 'neath its own blush and not come forth. 
It might have bloomed in fragrance and in beauty 
Had Hill and Flow'rboth been true to duty; 
The Hill must now remain as nature's shelf, 
To hold the Flower that blooms there by itself. 

The ex's that we shoot at are but few 

And far between, but yet we'll range our gun 

So the ])rojectile may go on into 

The states they live in, and iiit ihem as they run. 

We'H turn it now on Texas, and we'll slioot 

A solid ball oi silver in the camp 
Of Mr. Hogg, "i'is said he will not root, 

E'en if he's Mr. Hogg, a Texas swamp. 
Now, Mr. Hogg, if you don't think that we 
Like pork as good as you, just come and see : 
We like you, too, because you smoke the bacon 
To save our country that's so l)adly shaken. 
And love you more because you've done so much 
To get it off its jiresent single crutch. 
You brought the emi)ire of all Germany, 

Through her own "Iron Man," the great Bismarck, 



Tlic Gotham of Yasnia^'- 53 

Into our lines, wliich gave us victory 

Almost, which would have saved the country's bark, 
That's flound'ring now within a mighty wave 
And struggling hard to keej) from out her grave; 
And she'll keep out, but has had a close call; 
But next time we will save i^old-biis:; and all ! 

In Arkansas, with nil its fertile acres — 

Made fertile by the prosp'rous undertakers, — 

Where health and vigor flill so fast around them 

They scarce can make the haste enough to ground them; 

Where people die without the doctor's physic, 

Without disease, or e'en the slightest phthisic, 

So sudden, too, the patient keei)s his boots on, 

And ere he's planted, still the doctor shoots on. 

Thus adding to his list as he goes feeing 

The undertakers — 'tis a sight worth seeing. 

'Tis strange, indeed, it took so many rangers 

To cope with two well ''armed'' prize-fighting strangers, 

When all the i)eople of this mighty slate, 

Were called to arms — /v// /net in Joint debate, 

Debating plans that they might quick repulse them, 

And if not kill them, knew they could convulse them, 

Or all the sister states that sat back grinning 

To see the fighters come so near to winning. 

Oh, what a battle royal 'twas to see 

The whole of Arkansas's trained soldiery 



54 ^/^<^ Gotham of Yasmm^ 

In line of march ! The brave ones onward flood 

The soil that's soon to be drenched with their blood, 

Led onward by a knightly gov'nor's skill, 

Where steel 'gainst flesh is wielded but to kill, 

Undaunted on, unto the gulf of fate, 

In Little Rock to parley and debate, 

Then rendezvous their armies in array 

Of mighty forces for the fatal fray, 

Then charge the foe; and out fly two right arms, 

Which send the vanguards back in quick alarms 

For reinforcements. Mad to agony. 

They charge again, and shout for victory. 

With mighty rush in one broad phalanx. Soon 

The two are routed, ''horse, foot, and dragoon," 

But slightly wounded, as they run away. 

To live and fight again some other day,* 

In young Nevada, where the statesmen barter 

In prize fighting, and where they pose much smarter 

Than they do over in old Arkansas, 

Where law that's made sometimes reflects on law — 

Especially that made for speculation. 

And so much of it it becomes inflation ! 



* The Corbett-Fitzsimmons prize fight was booked to take place in 
Arkansas. The governor, not being able to cope with them in preventing 
the moral dignity of the state from being " punched " to death by such 
formidable pugilists, called out the militia of the state, and after the first 
encounter, the militia being " bested," called out the brave, majestic leg- 
islators of his state, who, after a desperate struggle, succeeded in routing 
the trespassing pugilists. The world looked on and applauded the cour- 
age of this great commonwealth. 



The Gotham of Yasniai'- * 55 

Nevada senators and little Repies, 

The gov'nor and his staff and all their dep-ies 

Nurse to their breasts what Arka did disdain so, 

And shake her head, and coquette and complain so. 

And viewed it with much favor — not so bad a 

Law as to exclude it from Nevada ; 

E'en better than the laws of older sisters 

Governed by old suave baldhead misters, 

Who have been favored through the chance of stealths. 

To set the seals of their old commonwealths. 

Ah ! see her sitting in her robes of scarlet — 

The sweet Nevada, flushed with rose tints fairer 
Than those that rippled o'er the face of Charlotte, 

Or Desdemona, Cleopatra, rarer 
E'en than the beauty of the world around her, 
When flow'rs from vales of Cashmere do surround her. 
Ah! take Nevada to your bosoms — crush her, 

Ye slaves to combat, till she droops and dies : 
Then like some friv'lous thing just lightly brush her 

Aside from mem'ry, then look where she lies 
And see the figure of sweet beauty stand 
O'er her dead ashes with a crown and wand, 
A virgin phoenix weeping on the scene ! 
Forget, then, if you will, the martyred queen ! 

We'll load again with dynamite and powder, 
And ram her full — yes, to the muzzle crowd her; 



56 * The Gotham of Yasniar 

For now the shot's more dangerous than any 

■We've made before, and, too, we have made many. 

Our mark is ranged 'way o'er the mighty Rockies, 

A living mark that takes a place with jockeys 

Of highest rank, as on his courser sits he 

E'en when the blood of battle's " to its bits " — see? — 

Ah! deeper, if you please, and will not crust him; 

E'en if it runs so deep his charger must swim, 

He's there the same; so if we should not hit him, 

And fail to make an ocean flow between us 

Of human blood, and nothing more to screen us, 
He has us sure, for we cannot then get him, 

So we must be as careful in our aiming, 

As ever gunner was in savage gaming. 
We're ready now, but tremble with such rigor 

That we'll be d d if we can pull the trigger 

For fear we'll miss our mark, and then the gunner 
Would be a goner sure, instead of punner. 

So ride on, Gov'nor, we will not molest you; 
Just let us be, and we'll no further jest you, 
For we confess that we are now most nervous. 
And don't want you to ride through blood to serve us. 

But since we have the charge we saved our life for. 

We'll wheel it round on little big Jo Fifer 

And let her go, so far above his head, 

That he will know we do not wish him dead. 



The Gotham of Yasmar 57 

Now, since ex-Altgeld's gone up to Chicago, 

And we have read the scene in which lago 

Was the main actor, we are now full ready 

To shoot again and hold our piece more steady: 

But we don't care to range on Illinois; 

We'll bring down larger game, as we employ 

Our gun and ammunition on some great, or 

Ex, who went browsing in some Western state, or 

Hunting expedition (for a gov'nor's chair. 

The which he captured ere he'd been a year there). 

For Congress, too : if they do not employ us 

To vote for East or Middle States, we'll ramble 
In hot haste west, where they will more enjoy us, 

While we avoid the wild Comanche scramble 
Of politicians that have oft bereft us 
Of our spoils; and as they have thus left us. 
We'll leave them, and go off in a hurry 
Where politics are not done in such flurry. 
And far beyond the Rockies rusticate 
To soon become the gov' nor of a state 
Or go to Congress, — somewhat like a preacher 
Just ground out — too sickly for a teacher. 
Not strong enough in mind for an attorney. 

Too slow to get from business just a slice. 
So when a boy they send him on a journey, 

To mills that grind out rev' rends in a trice; 



58 I lie (lolhaiii of )^(7sr?iar 

And when he is run ihroiigli tlie miller's s])()ul, 
His evidcMice of learning is, /le looks dcvoiif. 

We'll Sandwich (Island) uj) our satire now 
With ex-Queen Lil, who has just made her bow 
Before the President — bowed low and haughty, 
'And told him that our countty had been naughty 
To not replace the crown upon her brow, 
And that such insult she could not allow 
To go unchallenged without recompense: 

;lc ;K * ;}c * * 

She struck an altitude of self-defense, 

And said, ** What say you, Grover ? out with it! 

You've always been my friend; that friendshi]) yet 

I covet most: since you're to soon step down, 

Restore my fortune or restore my crown ! " 

And down before his august presence dropped. 

(The old clock in the tower in pity stopped.) 

The President looked weary; as he stood 

So penitent, he really did look good ; 

And by much effort spoke he, — ''Sorry, Lil, 

You were bereft; 'twas done against my will. 

Too late to help you ; go live on your pension ! " 

She rose, said, "Thank you"; he replied, "Don't 

mention ! " 
And thus they parted, if you please, — I say 
I think they did, — and Lili went her way. 



TJic Gotliavi of Yasinar 59 

The Chinese noble that has just been over, 

Just one of him that came to visit Grover, 

And this was Li, while Chang, he went out spreeing 

Conveyed by Hung to see all sights worth seeing, 

To be explicit, we will have to noun Li, 

As we do Chang, but yet we must verb Hung, 
And treat them to good grammar, and comply 

With laws of rhetoric, and old songs sung, 
Because the Chinese, they are so well lettered, 
And have so many titles, they are fettered, 
And tow'rso high, and look down so sedately. 
That we are forced to treat each separately : 
Li Hung Chang ('tis said); yet we know not why 
That Chang should be hung by such one as Li, 
Since hanged and hangman both came to our nation, 
To teach it that it should go on probation, 
Or follow old Confucius' paradoxes, 
Or other of the Oriental y2?AVj. 
We'll take the roi)c from Chang's neck and string 

Hung — 
Then who can say that Hung too was not strung? — 
And let Li go alone home to his fairies. 
E'en if they do kill off our missionaries; 
But should he come with other ones attached, 
He too, with them, will next time be despatched ; 
And reciprocity we will adopt, 
For killing us in China must be stopped. 



6o TJie Gotham of Yasmar 

The value of old Li seems very great — 

A thousand of us scarcely adequate 

We send down to the Orient for their help \ 

So if he comes again, we'll take his scalp, 

And balance up. E'en then we'll be their debtor, 

Although we've killed their greatest old abettor. 

The way nations pay their debts to us, it varies ; 

Some pay us killing off our missionaries, 

Thus go on robbing through religious skill, 

By killing ours when they have none to kill ; 

Like other fools we still go on to trade 

In stocks they have not — or just to be slayed, 

And when one comes here that will count for many 

We let him go. Why not square to a penny? 

But in a way we dare not ever meet them, 

For they can eat us, and we cannot eat them — 

At least, we think not, for they are so sallow 

And look so tough, with scarcely any tallow. 

With this advantage having to defeat us. 

Will we still go there when we know they'll eat us 

And we can not eat them ? I hardly think so ! 

You sly old Li, no more; you need not wink so; 

By winking, when away, you may defy us, 

But when among us, you can only try us ! 

When you first came, we set our guns to booming, 

But 'tis no sign that you should be presuming 

We love you more, or well enough to eat you : 

'T\Nd& policy that forced us thus to greet you; 



TJic GotJiani of Yasmar 6i 

We want your tea, your rice, without contagion, 
Your money, not your gods or your religion : 
And the salvation that we learned from Wesley, 
Or Martin Luther, learned it just expressly 
To save ourselves, but offer now to you. 
So liberal, we want to save you too; 
But if you roast the few who with you dwell, 
We'll take it back, and let you go to hell ! 

Dear Mr. Tillman, stick your fork well in, 

And pitch the slimy reptiles in the lake 
That grows so foul with their obnoxious sin 

They keep the Devil all the time awake 
To live with them. So, headlong let them go; 

Tailed or untailed or detailed, fork them down 
So numerously that the lake below 

Becomes so slimy that they cannot drown, 
But form into a kind of fetid crust. 
To cement hell up with their poison dust. 
There let them smolder in their infamy. 
The Gorgons of the nineteenth century. 



Part III 



We'll now proceed amid the cold world's jams, 
To rid ourselves of more spasmodic qualms. 
The Devil dances where the coward swerves, 
And sudden changes break in on the nerves ; 
So fan the fire that roasts our victims well 
To make them feel less when they drop in hell : 
We'll acclimate them ere they reach their goals, 
And have less pity for their tortured souls. 
When we began, we thought we would be local. 

On whom our light artillery should be pointed. 
And on the rest we'd vent our spleen out vocal; 

But that would make our satire so disjointed 
We fear its members never would be found. 
And go to pieces creeping all around: — 
The little ones in Gotham, with the others 
Who are so great, by this can all be brothers ; 
And Gotham yet, don't ask us to her revels, 
E'en if we've ranked her with the greatest devils, 
For what civilian would not like to see, 
A thousand devils in their revelry? 
And for this slight our wrath shall not diminish, 
But on the vitriol goes until we finish. 
62 



The GotJiam of Yasinar 6 

Scurrility's abhorred by classic taste; 
Yet, boiling over and with time to waste, 
We'll lift the valve, still bid the venom flow, 
And cram the mixture down each ruthless foe, 
Who'll smack his lips on all he's forced to quaff. 
And join our pleasure by his strangled laugh. 

We promise each who's forced to take his dose 

'Tis but the pure fermented bellicose; 

In broken doses taken voluntary 

It might hurt some — 'twould surely kill the scarey,- 

But those whose throats we roughly ram it down 

'Twill only cripple, as it does their town. 

If pitfalls dug for us catch other game, 
And keys to them are ours, who'll be to blame 
If that game be the diggers, and our hate 
Still smolders on, defying any fate? 

Here's at our theme, our town of open ditches 

That smokes with fogs that rise from '^ 

Dissolving in them, as they wallow down 
The "classic" gutters of the blistered town. 



J 



* Dogs, if the reader please, yet he may supply any other rhythm he 
may think suitable for the occasion. The town in the time of which we 
write had no sewers, and the debris of every kind was allowed to decom- 
pose (with the town), the mixture being occasionally pressed down with 
what was known in ancient times as the Reynolds-Yasmar roller, a 
relic of more ancient times even then. 



64 'Jfi(^ (lOtJiani of Yasinar 

Id dog days, when rain i)Ours down on this city, 

And heavens flush the streets through groans ofj^ity, 

From ev'ry source the stench of kennels flow 

Upon the waves that bear them as they go. 

While caps of filthy bubbles i)lainly tell 

The streets they come from by their awful smell; 

And as the current speeds u})on its course, 

It clogs in spite of filth's relentless force. 

Beginning near friend Zach's upon the ridge, 

It dumi)s its cargoes 'long toward Si)-r-y's bridge, 

Sweeping the butchers' stalls of guts and blood, 

Drowned dogs and cats, too, mixing in the mud; 

It heaves along in weaves of thicker slush 

Down past the court house, where the law}ers rush 

Into their own dear elements, the wave 

They long to ride — mixed with the mush they crave. 

First, to those legal lights that wink so lar 

That each wink darkens down some special star. 

Till 'shamed it is to shed its golden light, 

But blinks a little, then goes out of sight: 

A day with Blackstone — then the court will pass, 

The candidate, a lawyer or an ass, — 

The honors elevate about the same. 

The only difference being in the name. 

Most choose the latter for its doleful bray; 

The limb is branded, and he goes his way. 



TJic iiolluvji of )\is)}iar 65 

When thieves and knaves are stamped witli legal care, 

" Solicitors," (iod grant us to comi)are 

Such foreign substances as they contain 

To selves; thus honored, they should not complain. 

'Tis substances will suffer in the art 

Of the comparing — much the better part. 

When court is called, each time the country's lights 

Flood its base temple, to i)rotect the rights 

Of litigants. They come in swarms and schools; 

The sheriff brands them as he'd brand his mules; 

Each has a vote, and seeks this time to graze 

Ui)on the country's ''fodder''' and its ''maize'' ; 

Twelve fdl the jury box, the hundred stand 

Like buzzards on a waste of desert land 

Ik'holding an old horse gaze at the moon, 

Before he dies, and like them nod and croon. 

These are the stars, the thinkers of the land 

Unrav'ling that a judge can't understand; 

God give them vent with foreheads high and " shai)ed," 

Yox mud that made them surely was well "aped" ! 

They see with mouths, and grin with ears, and think 

With noses, as they smell with eyes, and drink 

The complex law-|)oinls down through ev'ry p(jre, 

Ab.sorbing all, and yet have room for more. 

We have the solemn thinker, and the grum, 

As well as silent thinker with ear drum, 



66 The Gotham of Yasinar 

And grinning, towering, hunchback thinker, too, 

In every shade from Rome down to Peru; 

In fine, the intellect of all the land 

Sits here enthroned — a kingdom in a band 

Of culture, sense, sobriety, and ease, 

As well as beauty bred, and formed to i)lease ; 

And they the sole construers of the law 

When life's at stake, and must note ev'ry flaw 

The counsel make, and, too, must judge the Judge, 

Then legalize a verdict on a grudge. 

Packed jurors sitting round to try their betters, 
E'en though the tried are large the Devil's debtors, 
With solemn brows and long-drawn faces blent, 
The embodied hypocrites that Dante meant; 
Oh, see them sitting! — gods! — intelligence 

Sends halos down o'er many a learned head. 
Where whisky-fog's exhaled like the "incense" 

That rises up from carcases long dead ! 

The rotten law-limb rants like other fools. 
Before the languid patience of the mules, 
Along in rows to list their father's bray 
With ears drooped low to catch whate'er thc\ say; 
For who will doubt such donkeys understand 
A i)arent's language and a court's command? 



The Gotham of Yasniar 67 

When evidence is in, each juror bows 

Unto the court to whom he made his vows, 

Retires so solemnly the bailiff cries — 

At every step he wipes his weeping eyes, — 

As on they march where justice often sits 

As dead as hell, wliile treason round her flits, 

And there they blink like owls on limbs or blocks, 

O'er verdicts made ere called into the box. 



A summer icicle is a rare thing, 
And very sightly, too, in fall or spring ; 
But when we see ice freezing the year through. 
Defying dog-days (and our satire, too), 
'Tis rare no longer; but unto your gaze 
We'll point ice out that hangs in court always. 
The little court that holds it — gods! 'tis small, 
And everything is froze from wall to wall ; 
And if hell through her reign no ice e'er felt. 
When this drops in she'll feel ice that won't melt. 
And im})s around that have been scorched for years 
Will go to freezing into scpiares and spheres. 
And where the hot flames seething once did roll 
The ice will gorge the same as the North Pole. 
Thus, hell will freeze up where these ice-limbs drop. 
And icelands will exist where roastlands stop. 



68 The GotJiani of Yasviar 

Unhappy F. P. once before a bar 

Of "justice" as 'twere meted out to men 
So long ago within old time's slow car 

We scarce remember it! but then, or when, 
It matters not so much as other things. 

If we can yet attune our broken lyre 
To sing them as they should be sung, the strings 

Would be so smoothly touched and swept, the fire 
Prometheus alone would send from heaven 

And warm our breast with sacred inspiration 
To sing the song till all chords be given 

To one long-drawn harmonious vibration; 
'Twere then a fitting tribute we might pay 
To him the murdered, when he pined away. 
Behind the bars of prison, oh ! his head, 

Stamped by the royal seal true manhood set, 
Drooped neath the chain of outraged law, as fled 

Each ray of hope to shield him from the net 
The low, ambitious p — secutors cast 
About him but to scourge him to the last. 
The barren walks about him caught his moan, 
They were the lodgments — hearts had turned to stone; 
His poor, emaciated form was bent. 
Yet honor stamped each broken lineament 
That law had written murder on ; its trace 
Was there and set, and homage held her place ; 
He lived, he pined, till hope had almost fled : 
The shackles fell: lie' s iiuiocent — [yut dead. 



TJie Gotham of Yasmar 69 

Yet what's a life e'en to a lawyer's fame; 
Though it takes a dozen, he must have a name. 

A man — a small inheritance is common; 

A little drinking will be soon forgot, 
A poker game, an intrigue with a woman, 

Remorse — repentance — then a pistol shot. 
The bait is cast; the buzzards swarm in numbers. 

Above the carrion, snapping hungry beaks 
To fill their maws, enough to wake from slumbers 

The dead o'er which a lonely phcenix speaks. 
And rises from its ashes mid the roar 

Of dreamy-eyed cadaverous bonepickers, 
Cawing round and waiting still for more 

When all is gone. Hope in the Phoenix flickers 
As it doth gaze upon the rack of bones 

So well picked by the cawing barroters 
That it must gaze upon the place with groans 

And bear the fate of most inheritors 
That fall into such hands, so low and rash. 
Such hands of pygmies — hands of legal trash. 

Long, long ago, a simple limb called Andy — 
It matters not if first or last name, — handy 
He was regarded with his limber tongue. 
E'en if its bridle was a little sprung; 
His face was pinched, his mouth a little pouched, 
His body stooped like some feline half crouched 



70 riir (iollhfiii of Yasniar 

To spiinjj; ii|)()n its |>ii"y, vvlicnc'ci he'd |)l(;i(l; 

His kiicfs knocked, too, iK^caust; lie w;is knock-kneed, 

lOnoii/^h to know- and we'll vouch this lor him — 

lie was ever ready and liljrd lo ilic hrini 

With e/^otisin, and 'way out he'd swell 

'I'o his own satisfaction when he'd dw(MI 

U|M»ii his knovvlcd/M- ol llif lej^al lore, 

And sirni, and lh<n adniiic hiinsell the more. 

lie was a siniller, not llic " [.M)l)l)l(r " kind; 

\ v\ he could " jM)l»Mc " il he were a mind. 

And il i:i said thai on< e upon a lime, 

(II you'll allow mc this line just lor ili\nu', 

And yet, supposin/^ no one will •^vV mad), 

I Ic helped lo " /m)|)|)1c " all one Icllow had, 

And when he laid him on a haiikiiipl shell, 

Wi' must supposi; he "divvied" with himself. 

"lis said his partner bore the name so well 

Of synonym lor " ( urlew " ^- one could tell 

That he could strel( h his neck up to the eared 

l,onj^f Andy and blow brains where none appeared; 

Thus Andy j.;ot tlw ( ledil lor Ihe wit 

< )| this synonym lor < urlew -every bit. 

Another twain from which we'd lake ihe Ihnsh 
And <omb a Snider, as we onwaid rush 



+ A ciirlcvv is a kiiiil ul n imr, <\ en Idwci lli;in I he oidiiiai v sliiti'|M»k< 

illllllllllltIK <'CHH|)(l(ll!t. 



I lie ( i'()///(U// (>/ )as)nar 71 

Througli verse heroic, c'cii lo (hinder risky 
When fooling with those swimming in had whisky, 
Had we the time; l)nt wilh their motley erew 
We'll hid ihem wallow on, and sa> • adien ! 



There are others, too, should never he h)rgollen, 
At least, before they are laid low and rollen ; 
"Pis oidy good stiffs, if well holed away, 
Will be remembered till they mold lo clay. 
And decomposing lnurots ere they <lit% 
(Jonid scar<e resolve to good stifj'sy if they'd try; 
And if we'd sing the worth of most the throng, 
We'd wade in (csspools lo inspire onr song. 
And steep our pen in jjoisons of the mires, 
Then burn their souls wilh ph()S|)hoiescent (ires — 
If the\ have any (since wi''v(; come to think, 
Souls may not dwell within the " missing link "; 
And il the chain still waits lor this repair, 
The link is found, and can be welded here). 



"I'is hardly fair lo (|uit the noble throng, 

And not jjcrsonify more in our song; 

15ul nothinf; to our credit can inure 

i{y pelting donkeys with their own niamne; 

So here we leave them lo the courl I hat passes 

(udgmeni lor I he Ihronj-, of li)brid asses. 



72 The Gotham of Yasmar 

Where law is outlawed through official grace, 

And justice droops, denied her honored place. 

We'll rear this epitaph where each is laid, 

'* He drowned while swimming in the slime he made." 

Upon the bench with his contorted body 

The '* Jedge" sits snoozing while the lawyers smell; 
He looks too like old hunchback Quasimodo, 

That Victor Hugo told about so well. 
In the cathedral of old Notre Dame, 
And handed down to an eternal fame ; 
Those who have read this greatest of all stories 

Mind how he threw the people in convulsions 
With his most hideous form when all his glories 

Were in his varied mixture of repulsions. 
Now, when we look upon the '' Jedge," we see 

The hunchback's frame remodeled; it's come down 

Through generations to this old dead town 
And reincarnated again, to be 

The '^Jedge" in Gotham, and not a bell-ringer, 

Or savior of a fair Bohemian singer, 
Like Esmeralda with Djali round her 
(Djali is the little goat that found her) ; 
But real ''old billys" follow now the ''Jedge," 
Called lawyers, that are "on the ragged edge," 
And use him as they like for a cat's-paw, 
And help him on to prostitute the law. 



The Got/iam of Yasiuar 7 3 

The clay that formed this fossil life was given 
A transient life void of the breath of heaven. 
And yet it wields its legalized iron rod 
As automatic as a demigod, 
Yet vested in full purple with the law 
To legalize its judgments on a flaw, 
And innocence must bow to it in grace 
And humbly hide in shame its honored face. 
Gods from old India, were they by his side. 
Would close their eyes in envy, not in pride. 
It as a model should invade their strand. 
For hideousness is godlike in that land. 

About the time of Hiero-glyphics, 

There was a journal published in this place 
By editors diseased with Rickets — six^ 

Loathed, wallowing in their own swill of disgrace; 
One old sleuth led the staff; each little one 

Yelped at his heels, like many a mmigy cur, 
With eyes half open, smelling, as they run, 

Some scent of scandal or some one to slur; 
With nose to ground, they prowl and sniffle by. 

Pretending that the trail is growing warm, 
And look about with the half-opened eye, 

As if by yelping they could do some harm. 



*The author may be mistaken in the number ; rickets, being a disease 
of the bones, and the species to which we allude being bench-legged, 
nature, perhaps, has done -all that was required of her, and the disease 
may be a misnomer. 



74 The Gotham of Yasmar 

The yelp's the only weapon that they use, 

For each one's toothless, barks with a half whine; 
And when the trail is ended, the abuse 

Is in the sound-wave flown from each canine. 
The sicklier one, whenever it was seen, 
Just looked so verdant that they called it Greeti. 
In scenting trails this whelp could only growl, 
And follow other tracks and sneak and prowl. 
While the old sleuth ran by, and whined and hissed, 
To tree a scandal where none did exist ; 
And yet, unchained like many a foul-mouthed hound^ 
They run at large instead of being drowned. 

A college ! nit, a college ! Yip, a school, 

Where little boys in knee pants mind the rule 

Laid down for them when from parental care 

They are sent forth in infant flushes rare, 

So tender and so youthful, ah ! the grace 

Of babyhood yet marks each dimpled face 

With rose tints flush where dews play hide and seek^ 

Like tears that roll down many a troubled cheek. 

Their mamma's absent, papa's too away, 

No little girls at school with whom to play; 

The rule must stand, and little boys alone 

Shall seek no other playmates than their own. 

Poor little ostracisms, born to fate. 

Step in this school and bow, and they are great. 



TJie GotJiani of Yasniar 7 5 

*She stands there aged in her youth content, 

With spurs already won ; alone she stands, 
Like an abandoned castle age had rent 

For centuries with her avenging hands ; 
There crumbling to the dust she stands alone, 

As the old charioteers of time pass on, 
Unmindful of the pace and the atone. 

She owes the future and the time that's gone, 
Or like a ship that rocks upon the wave. 

Without a rudder, pilot, or a crew, 
Sinking of her own weight to her grave. 

Abandoned, not forgotten, by the few; 
Once from her walls her scholars, hand in hand. 

Came forth; but this in time of days of yore. 
When one old pilot at her helm did stand 

For the long voyage of thirty years or more; 
And when he left her pilot-house, she stood 
Aimless, hopeless, floundering as she .would. 



The veriest of all veries, they will var\-, 
In contour, look, and stature as they tarry 
Upon the world, and yet they must be greeted, 
Just in proportion as they've to us meted 

*The piles of her once glorious superstructure have become of much 
interest to the modern student, especially the relic hunter. Many of the 
shells of old fossils are yet found among the debris, which are marvels to 
modern times. 



"j^ The Gotham of Yasniar 

Out their glances, tails, and claws of venom, 

Such shallow addles we don't care to win 'em. 

Nor what they say, or do, or think, or cater; 

We'll let the Devil care for them on later; 

We think we hear now what soon will be saying 

Among the knowing little donkeys braying. 

The pedagogue will wink and then assert it, 

That what we've written here has really hurt it. 

Poor little soft-brained silly addled tutor 

Should have his nose rung while he is a rooter. 

And those who teach now in the time of Cloddie, 

Will wish a thousand holes shot through his body 

When he succeeds again, which must needs follow, 

Because he would with them no longer wallow. 

The birch and childhood for the brain expansion, 

The rail pen and the log hut for the mansion. 

Such pedagogues and critics claim to know us; 

Oh, how we'll tremble when they overthrow us! 

But here we'll climb up to the stately college 

Where little winks and blinks mean lots of knowledge. 

^^ Another book; a satire !''' then a half-turn, 

A wild look in the eyes as from a heartburn, 

A smile more cynical that's meant to serve us. 

Which took such effort, made the server nervous. 

The smile was but the depth of all his knowledge, 

Yes, his, this fossil in old W College; 

And yet in spite of all such sham of scholars, 
We'll revel right on in our fresh-made dollars. 



The Gotham of Yasmar 77 

Next comes the happy councilman of town, 

Who gets an order ere he gets a crown, 

Who must indite a secret page or two 

Of what in future he intends to do. 

The written page in other hands must go, 

That work with tools, the tools along, you know, 

Into the hands that use them as their slaves, 

And dance abreast to music that depraves 

The ear of honor; yet they dare not choose, 

To do but that true manhood would refuse. 

Each happy councilman of this old town 

Has strings attached, and dances like a clown 

Whene'er they're pulled. The music starts apace. 

Each /////<?/ jumps to its accustomed place. 

Looks solemn from the corners of its eyes 

Toward its master, then again looks wise. 

Another pull : the vote is duly cast, 

And Nero fiddles for the town at last; 

For as the servant on the master waits. 

The master through the servant gets rebates. 

A measly council of a measly town, 
An aspect upon which the De'il would frown ; 
Enough to breed smallpox and pestilence 
And all the scourges of a like, offense. 
Such town can play the polecat of a state. 
And quarantine itself to its own fate 



78 The Gotharii of Yasmar 

By the obnoxious vapors that arise 
From its own self, and smell unto the skies: 
And woe unto those who go through the smoke ; 
Unless they're acclimated they will choke. 
For mountain trout cannot live in cesspools, 
No more than wise men can reside with fools. 

He* comes! he comes! bold Yasmar with his fund, 

And six* in hand wild steeds caparisoned : 

He draws the rein on one to make him dance, 

And with his whip he makes the others prance. 

On, on, through muddy street his chariot flies; 

Each palfry with distorted nose and eyes 

Leaps for its master, as the whip recoils, 

Renews his vigor and proclaims the spoils; 

The track is clear; bold Yasmar has proclaimed 

His speech is law, the law's his speech well named; 

Should any dare to quest his sovereign right, 

The six in hand just whinny with delight 

At such presumption; don't they know the law, 

And to be loyal to the one they draw ? 

Bold Yasmar is as clever as a clown, 

He has a mortgage on the " classic " town 

For all its worth; he has but little then; 

The most's the mortgage on the councilmen. 



♦Gotham was governed by one man, through six living instruments. 



The Gotham of Yasniar 79 

Next in its order is the world of clubs 
(This world is centered in this town of hubs) 
That number many of such prominence, 
In poker playing as have won '' s'teen cents." 
The two-cent ante is the nervy dash, 
And rich men of the clubs have gone to smash 
By planting all they had and being brave 
In putting down so much on ace or knave. 
The clubs are rich — supporting colo'd ushers; 
They rush the growler, too ; but most the rushers, 
Because they bring up two quarts for a penny, 
And for each sober one there's drunken many. 
The clubs give most the color to the town ; 
The town gives color back without a frown, 
The blending is most delicate to speak of 
From substances that few such cities reek of. 



The great Ouiatenan, well known to fame 

Where judge and lawyers of this learned port 
All rendezvous, in honor of this name. 

To fix up cases ere they go to court, 
Pretentious to discuss the lettered throng. 

Beneath the famous name they court the court, 
Deceive the people whom they live among. 

In ways that would deprave a house of sport. 



8o 1 he (lOtJiaiii of ) 'as))iar 

Deception is the silent watchword here, 

Where manhood dies — borne ofT without a hier,- 

And the sang-froid oi pretense half asleep, 

lUinks uj) its eye to see true honor weep. 

A club and town both honored by a name. 

And honored by the one they do defame 

Are scarcely subjects to inspire a song, 

Al)(>ve the turgid groveling of the throng. 

riie l-otus Club! the Lotus Club! O chirp. 

Ye crows and buzzards of the sj)heres above: 
Chirp to its glory as its U)rds usurp 

The thrones of Hacchus and unholy love, 
(irant them the trausi)()rt o'i all earthly things. 
And when the\' die, O buzzards, lend them wings 

Next in the galaxy of clubs there looms 
i'he Hit and Miss, where candidates for grooms 
(.Conspire together to entraj^ their slaves, 
l^ach noticed in her reign as she behaves; 
And as the " gay Apollos " on the run 
Get caught within the wily meshes spun 
From beams flashed from the eyes of coy co(]uette^ 
Wove in the loom deception into nets 
To catch their ** succors," blind as scaly fries. 
That rush in headlong to their sleepv e\es. 



llic GotJiani of ) \}S})iar 8 1 

And as they're caught and landed on the brink, 

(ichIs! how tlie vaixMs from them rise and 1-'- 

Oh, pity them — these i)oor dehided swains! 

Had they less stomachs, they might have more brains. 

'riK\i;<^<A- ol poesy ashamed dei)art, 
While yet they may, untarnished by the art 
Of musing through their mediums of earth, 
To sing such subie{ ts into endless birth. 

Jiut if our effort in unmeasured verse. 

Results in prose run mad, it might be worse; 

For could it fall as low as to the level, 

Of those we sing, we'll then implore the Devil 

To fdl us with his untold horrors known 

But to himself, and then assume our throne, 

To do our subjects justice, for we swear 

We then could do no less, if we should dare. 

Or, could we live o\\ hardware for a while. 

Washed down with acid, then we might revile 

To such a plane as to be just and right 

In painting likenesses of whom we write; 

And if you call it blackguardism, then. 

When thri)ugh this cesspool you have steered our pen, 

To leave you character as our bequest. 

And that from which you cannot be divest. 

♦Just smell. 



82 riic (iollinii ()/ )'<fsnnrr 

'Tis l)iil youisclvt's on whom must rest llu- hl.iinc; — 

'rill', l,II"l'l,l', (lorilAM (iKIS IIKR I'KOI'Kk NAMK. 

It oft occurs (li.il had ( oinrs oiil ol f^'ood, 
And good comes out of bad, if understood ; 
liut an clcrnMl sun from a (juagmire 

Is a rare tiling for us to see arise 
In place of balls of i)hosj)horescent Hre; 

But we have seen it, lo our great surprise. 

iMom all the great books of the manifold, 

The ptuesl, sweetest story ever lold 

(Iroups round " l'.en Ihn": from wheic its lights are 

rimmed 
The constellation of the stars are dimmed. 
Ambitious brilliants, in the course they run. 
Ride through the heavens to eclipse the sun ; 
Hut as their radiance svveei)S the ether o'er, 
They pale and flicker, and are seen no more; 
Just as the lettered minions strike their way, 
View their own i)lumage in the glow of day 
Shed from "Hen Hur" upon his eagle flight, 
Whose spreading wings fill the whole world with light; 
And as he goes the shaft shot from below 
Recoils on him who bent the erring bow, 
And on unscathed as (he bright beam of Mars, 
He keeps hi^ course amid the singing stars. 



riw (iolliaui ()/ ) 'asN/<rr (S3 

AiioIIkt Sim ol hull" less prck'iisions 

Rose o'er the " blister " with its peerless ray, 
And hovers 'mon/4 thi> stars of great dimensions 

And darkens down su( h as the Milky Way; 
It shines alone within its own dominions 

Ci hissing the heavens with the fairest gems, 
A l,in(M)ln throned witiiin its golden pinions 

To list to lyres 'mong starry diadems. 
We train our ear and he;ir the moeking bird, 

h'rom the lar South; it wakes its reeded throat, 
And pours the sweetest songs ear ever heard 

That lodge uj) in the heavens, every note; 
And down the vist.-is, through the cycles run, 
Our 'l'hom|)son shines, an cvcrhisting sun. 

Call what we write old hash, 01 inold\ rot. 
Helbre you read or alter, care we iu)t: 
And should you never read a line we write, 
And yet will criticise — well, that's all right ; 
You'll know as nuich before you read as alter 
When reading us for sake of sneers and laughter. 
Wink when you read, and simper when you wink, 
Straighten uj), disdain it, call it wasted ink, 
Mini, and then look wise, laugh oiU, wink again. 
Strut low, chuckle some, act a little vain, 
Close your lips, look grave, have the subject turned, 
Wheeze and frown, snee/e and cough, then our satire's 
sjJUTned. 



84 l^Jic Golliam 0/ ) (usiiiar 

Oil, liow MM li critirs cut us to tlic (juick ! 

I'VoMJ sucli lofty sources aliuosL iii;ikc us sick. 

Poisons kill us <|uitc as they do our verse, 

Wiien tliey liinl our iiead's as empty as our i)urse, 

And when we know so well such tilings will be said, 

A ;, " Dop.^erel like this never will be read." 

()ur lines may n(jt be (lit with the same chopper, 

Mxactly, through the satire; on the Hible, 
We'll swear at no time did the i)i|)es of cojjpei , 

(!ontain oiu' inspiration; and a libel 
Suit in chanc'ry will be pushed forward, 
Against such vile accuser; and the coward 
That dares us on, he will receive some nail scars, 
Kre he has reached his goal behind the jail bars; 
And handy, too, we claim to be with knuckles. 
So handy that we grin at boasting chuckles 
Of how they'll do us when we jKiblish — well 
IIV // s'rc wJu' 11 he flic tarrioii that ivill snicli .' 

We do not leai the ( owardly low bushwlKK^ker, 
>Vhose weai>()n's but the harmless, leadless cracker. 
Whose blasts are loud as e'en the rifle ranger 
That sneaks and runs at the ajjproach of danger. 

'I'o you, ye cowards, while we dare not biain y(Mi — 
I'or brains you have not,— yet we can disdain \'ou, 



Tlir ColJi(U)i of Yasniar S5 

Defy you, ciirsc you, run you like a traitor, 
Aiul leach you, too, tluit wc arc a i^ootl luUcr 
When causes spring uj) f^rcat cnou/^h to lest us 
By running cowards that would try to jest us; 
And if we've used the ,i,'Wy to lash sucli " ///^a//<^/ , " 
We'll take a rose back on a silver platter, 
For sheaves of anger, bound, may not be teeniinj^, 
With their hypnotics, in |)<)etic dreanung. 



A |)retly Knoll prepari'd by (lod lor me, 
U|)on which rose om* home so beautifully, 
Kissed by the Inst ray of the morning sun 
And by the last one when tlu* day was done; 
It was a mark for all the orbs above, 
It was an ark in whi( h to ever love; 
In summer when the sweet-llowered creeping vine, 
On trellised walls its tendrils did entwine, 
With sunbeams chasing through the filigree. 
The while the lountain played unceasingly, 
There, there was springtime all the year along — 
An inspiration fit to llavor song. 



Come, loved ones, (ome ! Come, little children, come I 
The hour is ill that takes us from our home, 
And leaves it for strange voices to i)rolong 
The echoes of our sad refrain of song. 



86 The Gotham of Yasmar 

O gentle breezes, bear our sighs away; 

Hope darkens in the future while we stay. 

O come! O come! and far away we'll go, 

E'en wheresoe'er the gentle breezes blow: 

The air is free; its sweetness oft inspires 

The life, the vigor, that the soul requires. 

Come, dear ones, come ! there's many a reeded throat 

Slaked its own sorrow through a mirthful note. 

And many a bird's been robbed and left distressed 

By cowardly vultures hovering o'er its nest! 

And this was his to love, the home he prized. 
The harper's dreams of hope full realized ; 
A struggling boy with poverty, forsooth. 
Who was ambitious, if sometimes uncouth ; 
Yet a kind lyre responded to his hands. 
And trained ears listened e'en to foreign lands, 
To little effort, 'twere not all his blame. 
Songs came and kindled in his soul the flame, 
And if the curse be his, the cause still clings 
To nature's lack in harmony of things. 
Success to him was but delusive joy 
Brought by the harp he swept just as a toy 
In early life, and yet he struck the tone 
That thrilled his soul with rapture; if alone, 
It were amusement the responding strings 
Set hope's bright jewel to aspiring wings. 



The GotJiani of Yasina7^ %'] 

Now, blame me if you will — ah, censure me! 

But could you once be squeezed into my place. 
And taste awhile the gall of poverty. 

As I have tasted, all caused by a brace 

f puppets — d-7ighill gouge rs, if you please, — 
Who robbed me that they might rise for a time 

Into an atmosphere of pure degrees. 

That would surround them in their pantomime. 

Bread and water! bills both large and small, 
And each one seasoned by the bitter gall 
Of hate, contempt, that rise and overflow. 
In quick succession as they come and go. 

For months and years I kept my wrath confined, 

And swallowed back, and swallowed back, and pined 

Because my fate was so, until I reeled 

With frenzied madness; then my soul was steeled 

Against such vipers; now who's in my path 

Is branded with the rod, red hot with wrath. 

1 know no fear, and, too, can love and hate, 
Rejoice and burn and bow to any fate. 

For I have writhed within the world's retorts, 
Till tempered to defy the villain's arts, 
To scorn his low, debased, and vile decree. 
And catch him in the trap he set for me. 



88 The Gotham of Yasmar 

The time was once, and still it might have been, 
That no harsh words could flow from off my pen, 
But since the pack of curs around me howl 
I've learned to kick them, just to see them scowl. 
'Tis love for love, and hate for hate, to spurn 
This town of hypocrites from which we turn. 
And good for bad while nature spins her tops. 
Will bring it into busy tailor shops 
To make it masks, beneath which it may hide, 
And strut along in full religious stride. 



By vampires robbed, through courts of ev'ry claim, 
Of home, of kindred — worse, of a good name, — 
While the vile sleuth unscathed alone commands, 
As Gotham sits and claps her bloody hands. 
Stained in the gore of honor, and again 
Stained in her own corruption, to remain 
A fetid sore of all that's bad the worst. 
And all that's cursed on earth the very cursed. 
So go your way (the sun will on you shine ; 

Its rays spread over stagnant pools as well 
As the clear, sleeping lake), and I'll go mine; 

I'm only sorry if I e'er did dwell 
Within your borders, for you may construe 
By reading me that I've absorbed from you. 



The Got/ia?7i of Yasuiar 89 

If you are sorry, too, if I did dwell 

Within your borders, pray you do not weep, 

For those on earth who make a transient hell 
For others find an endless one to reap. 

So goes the paradox, just let 'er go. 

And be prepared to sniff the flames below. 

Thus far we've gone, and yet we have not done. 
But here we'll camp, and wait — and spike our gun. 



^ 



016 115 924 4 





